Wednesday, February 6, 2008

We take the ferry from Hong Kong to Cheung Chau, one of the outlying islands. It is a sunny day, and warm. Cheung Chau is small, no more than a fishing village nestled into a high backbone of rock and scrub. There are no cars. While we are eating lunch - a collection of small local fish mixed with garlic and hot spices and vegetables – a walking funeral procession goes by on the narrow street in front of us. It is colourful, quiet, and not quite as solemn as we are used to. On the boat back in the sunlight I am quite mesmerized by how Natalie looks. She is wearing a black and white sundress that crisscrosses over her breasts. The wind is blowing the dress tight against her, plastering it to her body as if it is soaking wet, showing her nipples, the curves of her stomach, the crease of her thighs. You can tell she is not wearing panties. She leans back against the steel bulkhead of the boat, and I lean into her, rubbing my thickening cock against her thigh. She knows how erotic she looks. The ferry is moderately busy; it is a passenger ferry only. Natalie closes her eyes, angles her face upward, leans back against the bulkhead and enjoys the heat of the sun. She knows men are stealing furtive glances; even a pair of teenage girls look at her and confer in agitated whispers, their eyes examining her body, not sure whether to be shocked or fascinated.

The bar on the ground floor of the Mandarin is always full; the hotel and several near it are customary overnight stops for business men and women on their way through. Over the sound of a banal trio singing covers of jazz favorites you can hear the sound of a number of accents : English, Scottish, Australian, Canadian, New Zealand. Usually there is someone speaking German, and these days, Russian. Tonight I am feeling some inner heat, and Natalie is feeling full of some buzz of liberty that comes with foreign places. We talk about how erotic she looked earlier on the ferry; I tell her how her nipples looked; where the fabric had a swatch of white, you could see the curve of her tanned aureole.

Once in San Francisco I bought her a very attractive bustier; I remember when I went to pay for it and a couple of bras, I asked the girl serving us to check the addition; it couldn’t come to $400. I hadn’t checked the cost of the bustier; it lifted her breasts prettily, stopping just at the aureoles of her nipples – in fact, when she turned certain ways, and moved her arms, the aureoles of her nipples became visible through a narrow strip of crinkled black gauze that rimmed the top of the bustier; it had looked so fantastic on her I hadn’t even thought about cost, assuming it would be in the same ballpark as other items in the store. It turned out to cost over $300, but I was smitten with it. This is what she wears tonight. With a black suede skirt down past her knees, and leather boots. She looks encased in black, bursting from her bustier, so ripe. She is to sit at the bar and order a drink; I will watch from just outside, at the edge of the hotel lobby. This is something we had done before; her line if approached is that she is waiting for someone, but he is late and she has just about given up on him. This gives hope to anyone whose eye she has caught.

Two German businessmen ended up taking stools next to her. Their eyes take in her outfit, her silky dark red hair falling just to her creamy shoulders, the creamy roundness of her breasts. She accepts a glass wine, and answers their questions as planned. Emboldened by drink, one of them rested a hand on her thigh; which she maneuvers away from after a period of time that let him know her initial reaction is positive, but then has thought better of it. He finds a pretext to look at her earrings, and places a hand on her shoulder, kneading it. The other man is staring at her breasts, lifted by the bustier.

I approach and she turns, making her apologies to the two men. She introduces me to them, Hans and Dieter, and they accept their disappointment with good grace, following her with longing as we find a sofa away from the bar.

Later that night I undress her at the edge of the window in our room in the hotel, a few paces back from the glass. I do it slowly, and she watches to see if anyone in the hotel opposite is watching, where five or six rooms in the opposite hotel might have a view. Then in one of the rooms we see a couple of figures. Females. Very briefly, we speculate that it is a pair of young women, perhsps college girls on a trip, or young office workers, a couple of secretaries here for a weekend. They half-hide behind their curtains. Possibly, in this poor light - the light from one bedside lamp on the opposite side of the room – they might see me scrape my fingers down the front of Natalie’s naked body. I take my time. Pinch her nipples. Take more time. Bury a couple of fingers in her cunt. Then I turn her, kneel in front of her so her back is toward the window, her legs spread, my shape visible between her legs. I continue to fuck her with two fingers, my tongue on her clit. She keeps her balance by resting her hands on my head. Finally, she cums, her body convulsing and jerking, till she has to bend over my head, her knees collapsing. I let her recover herself, then she stumbles to the bed, where she lies down on her back, naked, her eyes glazed over, a bit of a crazy smile on her face.

I pull the drapes and stand against the tv cabinet at the end of the bed, then pull one of those little bottles of scotch out of the minibar. I know she never likes to cum only once. Her first orgasm just sort of lights the fire, especially for that next one, which always seems to be her most intense one. I sip my scotch and make a motion at her cunt with the glass as I take it from my lips. “Go ahead, mon amour, you know I love to see you cum.” Her fingers go to work, she lifts her knees, and I watch, her fingertips glistening, the wet sound occasionally rising above the sound of the air system. I part the drapes and see the two young women are still watching. When Natalie is close, she straightens out her legs, as always. This is how I usually know she is about to cum: she can’t help straightening her legs and curling her toes. Then she is convulsing, moaning, gasping… it seems to go on forever. Finally when she is done I pour her a glass of wine, one of her favorite things. I close the curtains.

I'm not sure I can begin to articulate my love for this piece. It's my favorite of yours thus far. I can see it as distinctly as a movie, some epic in a foreign, imperialist locale ... and yet it is very intimate. Not pornographic. Simply personal. So yes, I suppose I feel that I am a voyeur throughout the entire story, in vivid techocolor. Beautifully written. And hot.

We travel, we live in our towns and cities, and our inner selves are continually venturing out on their own journeys. These pages? Erotic, sensual, graphic, thoughtful, and at times puzzled because I'm not sure where I'm going.
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